HOLE
by Eric Davis
I was led to believe as a kid that if I dug a hole one way I would end up in China. If I dug that hole another way I’d end up at the center of the Earth where, like in a movie, I would encounter a different, fantastical world. I never wanted to dig that far. I wasn’t sure I would like what I would find there.
Later in school we were taught that if you dig a hole and put all of the dirt you took from that hole back into the hole, you couldn’t perfectly fill the hole again; you would either have too much or not enough. It had something to do with displacement, but I think it was because they didn’t know what they were doing.
So I dug a hole.
My hole wasn’t perfect, at least mathematically speaking, but it was my hole, a hole unlike any other hole in the world. Instead of filling that hole with the dirt I took out (and
had been taught wouldn’t re-fill the hole), I decided to fill my hole with words. After all, there were plenty of words in the world and this wasn’t that big of a hole.
Since I thought it would be easy to fill a hole with words I grabbed my dictionary, took it
to the hole and opened it. I knew the words wouldn’t fly off the pages so I shook and shook the book until all the words fell out and into the hole. To make sure I didn’t miss any I leafed through the pages, but all that was left were the occasional illustrating pictures that used to go with the words. It was very odd looking indeed, but something I had to do.
I looked in the hole and found that it wasn’t completely full. I wasn’t surprised, though, because words in dictionaries are printed quite small. I took books from their shelves; then more, then more, and more, until all my bookshelves were empty. I grew a bit anxious that even though the words were printed small, surely I had enough books with enough words to fill the hole. I had to have more words. I needed more words.
I went to the library and checked out all of their books and emptied the words into the hole. It wasn’t enough. I went to the bookstores, bought all of the books and emptied them all into the hole. It still wasn’t enough. Maybe the words were too flexible, too slippery, which was why I needed to keep adding more. I thought perhaps the words weren’t compact enough, that there was no true bottom to the words, so I tamped them down nice and tight and went to bed.
The next morning I went to check my progress in the light of a fresh new sun, but the words were
gone.
Gone, as if they had evaporated into nothing, which is odd because I had used some pretty heavy words. Where had they gone? Had someone stolen my words? What would someone want with my words? Didn’t they realize how important words were to me? It’s not like they were going to use the words the same way I was using them, but if they needed the words, really, then, who was I to stop them from using my words? I just hoped they treated my words with grace and respect.
I began all over and filled the hole with words.
The next day the words were gone again.
I thought if someone took the words, they had to know those words meant something to me; why else would I be putting words in the hole? But what if no one stole my words? What if it rained and the water ruined my words? What if, what if, what if? I didn’t have time to ponder what had happened to my words and if, or how, my words would be used. I was running out of time and began filling the hole with more words.
Every day for weeks and months the hole would appear empty the next morning.
I finally snapped under the pressure of trying to prove “them” wrong about being able to perfectly re-fill a hole.
I started spewing and vomiting words into the hole; every vile, profane, hateful word I could think of including quite a few multi-syllabic ones I made up just for the occasion. I shouted and screamed at the hole continuously for hours.
But nothing happened.
The fill neither rose nor fell.
I fell and wept next to the hole. I began telling it how sorry I was to have said such awful, hurtful things; that I didn’t really mean any of them. I told the hole there was no room in the world for such words and was appalled that I had tried to fill it with such nonsense. The hole didn’t respond.
I began cooing and whispering sweet nothings to the hole. I curled up around it to show how much I cared for it. Since there were no books left to read from, I began reciting poetry to the hole: Auden, Bukowski, Collins, Ferlinghetti, Manguso, O’Hara, Rudd, Waldman, Wiese, on and on and on until I could barely speak.
Then I noticed it.
The hole was almost completely and perfectly full.
Almost.
Had I missed something? Were there yet some other words I could use to finish the job? I lay there for hours thinking about words. I had used every known word, what else could be left? I gave up. I had failed. They were right, you couldn’t perfectly re-fill a hole you have dug for yourself.
As I stumbled upright three words fell from my mouth. They dripped into the hole in a line of slobber stretching long and thin to the breaking point and then plopped onto the rest of the words.
“I love you.”
And then the hole was completely and perfectly filled.
©2007 REDavis
